


Fallout Boys feat. Paladin Danse

by pantan



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Sex, Danse fucks everyone, Danse is Thorsty, Danse is out of his power armor every chance I get, Dirty Talk, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone will get a round two lmao, Fluff, Friendship, Hand Jobs, I fucking promise there is no bestiality, I mean it, M/M, Multi, No Established Love Interest, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PWP, Possibility of other chapters to be added in the future, Romance, Short Chapters, Spoilers, all relationships are consensual, almost, he needs some milk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-09-14 18:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16918056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantan/pseuds/pantan
Summary: Paladin Danse finds himself in several different situations with the men in his life; some are sweet, some are sexy.A Danse and the Men of Fallout anthology, read in short chapters. Spoilers ahead.





	1. Deacon

**Author's Note:**

> So here's the beginning. I was going to upload the whole thing in one chapter, but I think I want these interactions to stand out on their own. Enjoy!

M7-97's foot catches on a twisted clump of roots, and he tumbles head-first into the dark ravine.

 

The water is cool but his lungs burn, and foul-tasting liquid rushes into his mouth when he gasps for air a moment too soon. He reaches for the belt around his waist, desperate to shed the heavy clothes dragging him deeper, but the buckle is stuck, and his head is light.

 

M7-97 casts his eyes up toward the surface of the water and sees the silver reflection of moonlight rippling above. For a moment, he thinks it's the last thing he'll ever see. Then something seizes his hand, tugs, and he lifts from the water before he knows what's happening.

 

"Deacon!" M7-97 gasps, and the pair struggles against the rushing current to reach the sandy shore. "You shouldn't have gone in - the water - the radiation!"

 

"How about a little gratitude for once, M7?" Deacon jokes over the distant patter of fire and blasts of laser beams. "You're alive, you're well, and you're out of the goddamned Institute!"

 

"You're right, thank you again, I owe you and the Railroad my life-"

 

"We can kiss and make up later, M7, but for now I'm focused on getting you to Slocum Joe's so we can give you the start you deserve, okay? The Railroad will get you set up. You don't want to remember any of that stuff, I promise you. Just stay close to me."

 

M7-97 wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world.


	2. Culter

Rivet City is loud and dank and musty, and Danse wishes there was some way he could have more out of life. Cutler gives him that the day he trips over Danse's junk pile and nearly impales himself on the sharp edges of a circuit board.

 

"Jesus, are you okay?" Danse cries, leaping to help the fallen man.

 

He's an inch and a half shorter than Danse when he's on his feet, wide brown eyes clear as the sky after rain, a light sprinkling of freckles dusted over his golden cheeks. "Christ, sorry!" the man apologizes, and dips back to his knees to straighten out Danse's merchandise. "Aw, I mucked up your goods."

 

"No, it's just junk anyway," Danse insists, squints at a small patch of red. "Are you bleeding?"

 

The man pauses, touches the colored spot on his arm, sucks in a breath. "Ah, _shit_. Just a little. Old wound, though, I didn't get it here. Fuck, I'm out of meds, too..."

 

The man's arm looks bad, swollen and pink and bleeding; he has an infection, and Danse doesn't trust the meds they sell a few stands down the bough of the ship. "I know a small medical building farther south I could take you to," he offers. "They have some salvage left. Might be something for your arm, too."

 

"Thanks," the man says, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. He holds out a hand. "I'm Jorge Culter."

 

"Danse," he returns, and allows his fingers to linger against Jorge's palm. "I can always head over there alone, if you're in a lot of pain. I have some things to pick up along the way regardless."

 

"Oh, please," Jorge snorts, flashes Danse a grin. "I'm really not a _lie here and take it_ kinda guy."

 

He's singing a different tune over a year later when Danse thrusts inside of Jorge, gripping Danse’s hips and groaning, gasping, demanding.

 

“Fuck me, Danse,” he grouses. “You feel fucking incredible.”

 

“You too,” Danse grunts between thrusts, long, slow, but deep. “You’re perfect.”

 

“Harder,” Jorge whispers, and Danse pushes as far inside his lover as possible. He’s already gone - Jorge could ask him to tap dance naked in a marsh full of mirelurks and he wouldn’t question it. Still, when he quickens his pace, he makes sure to hold just enough back to see if Jorge begs for more.

 

Danse grips Jorge’s sides with the callus of his fingertips and hauls him up, tucks his legs under Jorge’s knees so he’s practically sitting in Danse’s lap. Danse holds him up with the sheer strength of his arms, presses a kiss to Jorge’s mouth, breathes his air. He slides all the way out, the friction driving him mad, and both men gasp at the lack of contact. “Do you want it?” Danse whispers.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you want it back inside you?”

 

“ _ Yes _ .”

 

Danse slams his hips up and they shudder together, goosebumps rising all across their naked skin. Danse doesn’t pause for breath, feeling his orgasm draw near, and pushes inside again, then a second time, a third, a fourth. Jorge reaches between them and strokes himself as he rides Danse’s cock, air going in and out of his mouth in uneven puffs.

 

“Fuck,” Jorge says, “fuck, Danse, I’m gonna-!”

 

Something hot spills over Danse’s lower abdomen, and watching the absolutely beautiful way Jorge's face twists then relaxes as he comes sends Danse over the edge, and he’s coming too, pistoning furiously into Jorge until his skin is too hot and everything is too tight and he sees stars.

 

“Jesus,” Jorge murmurs, collapsed onto Danse’s chest. “That was better than the time we used the mutfruit.”

 

“Hm.” Danse is still coming down from his high. “Lucky I have you to spare me a purposeless life. I've been thinking about going out and doing something, though. Would you come with me?”

 

Jorge laughs, rolls onto his back and tosses an arm around Danse's waist. “My friend, no man can fuck me the way you do. I plan to stick close to you forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought Culter's story with Danse was so fucking sad, so I really wanted to showcase their relationship when it was new. Culter never officially has a first name (just like our brooding paladin) so I improvised.


	3. Maxson

Paladin Danse is called into the bridge of the Prydwen by Elder Maxson a little too early one Monday morning, when the filthy stench of super mutants and oiled machinery still clings to his flesh. Maxson is facing the bay window, overlooking the Capital Wasteland, hands clasped behind his back. Danse can see his face, stern and stone, reflected in the glass.

 

He looks grave, indeed.

 

“You wanted to see me, Elder Maxson?” Danse asks, standing at attention, clunky power armor steaming at the joints.

 

Maxson turns. “Good morning, Paladin. I’m glad you were awake to answer my summons.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

“I’ve chosen to call you to me today because there is big change on the horizon, Danse, and you remain one of my most loyal, my most trusted soldiers. Do you understand?”

 

He’s asking for discretion; Danse answers, “Thank you, sir,” and it seems enough for him.

 

Maxson inhales, leans against the inner railing of the bridge, a casual stance Danse has rarely seen him adopt. There’s a pause. “The Capital Wasteland has improved as much as we can make it, Paladin. There are other, filthier places in the world that we are needed. I plan to help cleanse them, as well as bring war to this so-called Institute. I’m planning to send a few good men and women out there, and I want you to lead a team.”

 

“I’d be honored, Elder,” Danse says, reverent. “Since I joined the Brotherhood I’ve made it my life’s mission to eradicate all that poses a threat to humanity.”

 

“Good,” Maxson murmurs. “You leave for the Commonwealth next month. You’ll have a Vertibird and six men and women under your command. Your primary objective is to locate the Institute, but if you come across anything non-human I expect you to take appropriate action." The gleam in his eye turns predator, hungry. "You’re a man of action, aren’t you, Paladin?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Danse agrees.

 

“I always liked that about you,” Maxson chuckles. “How should I reward your loyalty?”

 

Danse’s reward is Maxson’s cock in his mouth, his knees against the hard metal of Maxson’s chambers, power armor flayed open and empty at the door where he’d shed it. Danse has spent many nights imagining this, picturing what it would be like, the ultimate hero-worship. Doing this makes Maxson his god.

 

Maxson’s hands fist in Danse’s hair, his breath hot and humid. Maxson groans, hips bucking into Danse’s face.

 

Danse moans around Maxson’s dick, his lips happy but numb, his most taboo sexual fantasy fulfilled. Maxson wanted this, too, wanted Danse to suck him off, has been thinking about it for god-knows-how-long, and knowing that his idol has been thinking the same, perverted thoughts as he makes Danse hard.

 

He bobs his head up and down the shaft, tasting every inch he can. It's beyond erotic, and when Maxson fucks into Danse's mouth, he responds by swirling his tongue at the head.

 

“You give head just how you engage in combat, Paladin,” Maxson breathes, twining his fingers deeper into Danse’s locks. “Brutally. With precision. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you were a good soldier, that you know how to follow orders.”

 

Danse illustrates Maxson’s point by swallowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxson is such a dick lmao


	4. Preston

This isn’t the first time Danse and Preston have been left in Sanctuary together.

 

Most of the time, Danse leaves his power armor in the work bay, tinkers with it when he’s out of everything else to do, occasionally shows Sturges how to better upgrade the machinery around the settlement.

 

Danse would be lying if he said Preston Garvey hasn’t caught his eye once or twice. He appreciates what Preston is trying to do, the noble cause he fights for. Danse would be out there himself, helping the Minutemen rebuild and aiding settlements around the Commonwealth if he wasn’t stuck on Sanctuary guard duty.

 

Nate’s been gone for a few weeks, and there’s still no orders from the Prydwen, so Danse stays obediently where he was left, awaiting the return of his compatriot. He isn’t sure where Nate is, who he’s with, or when he’ll be back, but he doesn’t mind so much on warm afternoons when Preston takes off his scarf and opens the top few buttons of his shirt for air circulation. More so when the Minuteman works in the garden, sweaty and dirt-streaked, breaking earth with a powerful swing of his arms and a hoe. Danse doesn't think he's been caught looking, not yet.

 

“Danse,” Preston greets, and Danse looks up from the open panel of his power armor. “I can’t help but notice you’ve been rearranging the wires in that thing for the past six days. How about a change of pace?”

 

“What did you have in mind, Garvey?”

 

“Come patrol with me,” Preston suggests, fiddles with his laser musket. “I’m headed over to Red Rocket to trade a few things, and I want to make sure they still have good defenses, in case the raiders from Concord try their luck again.”

 

“I’d be glad to help, Garvey,” Danse agrees, and they’re on their way not long after.

 

It’s too hot for his armor; Danse dons a simple flannel shirt with a leather chest piece over it. It’s not enough to protect him from anything too nasty, but Red Rocket is so close that he doubts he’ll need more.

 

Preston makes a change too, leaves his bulky coat and gloves behind, and Danse admires the bulging veins and calloused tips of his fingers. At some point during their walk, Danse glances over for a peek, notices Preston looking away quickly. With a start, he realizes they've been eying each other, and for god knows how long.

 

“We’ll never make it back before sunset if you keep that up,” Danse says.

 

Preston jumps, cheeks flushing a shade of earthen clay. “Huh?”

 

“Unless you want to take a little detour.” Danse shrugs. “All I’m saying is, keep staring at my ass like that and I’ll  _ want  _ a detour.”

 

They stop in the middle of the road, Red Rocket not far in the distance, Sanctuary equally close behind them. Preston licks his lips. “I could work in a little detour,” he murmurs. “It's been a little warm for your usual getup, you know. You have no idea how surprised I was the first time I saw you out of your power armor.”

 

Danse’s brow rises. “Oh?”

 

“Who’d have known? Underneath all that bulky metal...” Preston's eyes dip to his hips, slowly trace a path back to his eyes.

 

“Detour it is,” Danse growls, taking Preston’s hand and dragging him to a place where they can make out in peace.

 

The most surprising revelation of the day isn’t that Preston’s also been lusting after him, nor that he’s a little pent up and ready for some casual action, but that he’s one of the best kissers Danse has had the privilege to experience, and he can do some  _ incredible  _ things with his lips.

 

It’s a nice detour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh I really like Preston, and while his constant stream of settlements that need help gets annoying, I think it's so endearing that once you're romantically involved he calls you "babe" TT^TT


	5. Valentine

By principle, Danse should dislike Nick Valentine.

 

He’s a synth, but there’s something comforting in the way he doesn’t try to hide it, in his innermost desires to do good, to do right by people. Nate’s been bringing all kinds of folks back to Sanctuary, mercenaries, addicts, journalists, an entire super mutant (and Danse refuses to so much as go near  _ that  _ kind of trouble). The settlement is lively, and while still awaiting orders from the Prydwen, it’s not the worst thing in the world to occasionally sneak off with Preston for entertainment.

 

Still, Danse is starting to suspect that Nate has dumped him here with no intention of asking him on missions again.

 

It’s with these kinds of thoughts that Valentine finds Danse as he repairs the weather damage done to some of the newer buildings, hammer in his hands and nails in his teeth.

 

“You’re up early, Paladin,” Valentine’s signature timbre rumbles through the air.

 

Danse looks behind him; Valentine is in his same old hat-and-trenchcoat getup, easy to spot, hard to mistake. Danse clears his throat. “There’s repairs to make, to give the settlers a better night’s sleep. Everyone else is off with Knight Nate or scavenging for supplies, so I thought I would do something about the gaps in our walls.”

 

“Nate ought to write home more often,” Valentine chuckles. “You’re not the only one feeling neglected by his absence. Say, you and Garvey have been here the longest, haven’t you?”

 

“Technically that Mister Handy has been here the longest, but Garvey was first and Nate brought me here shortly after he joined the Brotherhood.” Danse is out of nails, looks around for more; Valentine holds a few out. Danse’s pride stops his thanks just short of his lips.

 

“I understand that Nate just popped out of the ice tray and is looking for a familiar structure, like from his military days, but why did _you_ join the Brotherhood of Steel, Danse? Forgive me for saying that with the exception of Strong, you’ve treated me and Codsworth just fine.”

 

“Don’t mistake my kindness for tolerance, Valentine,” Danse warns. “You aren’t the worst synth I’ve met, and your priority is helping the people of the Commonwealth. That alone is redeemable in my eyes. I joined the Brotherhood on the same wavelength as Knight Nate; I was living a dead-end life in the Capital Wasteland and wanted to be a part of something bigger.”

 

“You’re from the Capital Wasteland?” Valentine sounds impressed, and Danse tries to remain casual. “Any family back home?”

 

“Just me. I was raised in the streets until I saved up enough to move to Rivet City. I ran a junk stand, Valentine. When the Brotherhood started recruiting, it was like I’d finally found a purpose, a greater good that I could be part of. The philosophy wasn’t hard to adapt to, once it was explained to me.”

 

“And now you hate anything unnatural, mutants and synth like me,” Valentine murmurs. “Isn’t that right?”

 

Danse hesitates. “You’re not so bad. The Institute is the real monster.”

 

“Hm. Something we agree on. Maybe we can get along, after all. Can I take this to mean you’ve had a change of heart?”

 

Despite himself, Danse grins. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why can't we date Nick Valentine, he's the best TT^TT


	6. MacCready

MacCready’s fist pumps with practiced ease up and down Danse’s shaft, filthy utterings tumbling from the mercenary’s lips.

 

“You like it, don’t you, Danse?” MacCready asks, rotates his hand at the head, rubs a thumb along the slit.

 

“Fuck,” Danse breathes.

 

The twine keeping Danse’s wrists together burns a little, but he let MacCready tie him up of his own free will, and while it’s not something he would usually allow, it’s also a huge turn on. “Why are you still dressed?” Danse asks. “I told you I don’t like to owe favors. Especially not to a mercenary.”

 

MacCready looks him in the eye for a long moment, then dips his head and takes Danse into his mouth, all the way in.

 

Danse curses, limbs quivering. They’re shacked up in an abandoned house, on a creaky bed, and he knows he should be quieter; they cleared at least twenty ferals from the area before their banter had Danse and MacCready so hard that they had to stop, but there might be more. The area Nate wanted them to check for potential settlements can wait.

 

“Fuck, you’re loud,” MacCready mumbles, slides his lips down, then up, once again. “You get a kick out of not being in control?”

 

“MacCready, I said I don’t want to owe you a fav-  _ Shit _ ,”

 

MacCready is dropping fast and hard, clearly uninterested in what Danse has to say, and he can’t really complain. It's hot and wet around his cock, the sensation of a tongue exploring every ridge and dip on him intense. MacCready is amazing at giving head.

 

“Jesus, MacCready, just like that,  _ yes _ .”

 

He pauses; Danse grunts in disapproval. MacCready reaches for the buttons on his duster. “I was going to make this all about you,” he admits, undressing. “But this is the first time we’ve actually addressed our attraction, and because you hate me and I hate you, it’s best if we make this a one-time deal. Besides, I tied you up but it looks fun. Wanna trade places?”

 

Danse ties MacCready’s wrists to the headboard, his own hands now free, and helps slide the trousers from his legs. MacCready's dick, hard and heavy, falls onto his stomach. “What the fuck are you waiting for?” he asks, wiggling his hips, widening his knees. “You coming in or not?”

 

“Condom,” Danse grunts.

 

“They say it was the first thing people made after coming out of the vaults,” MacCready says, smirking as Danse rolls the rubber on. “And lube. Couldn’t do without it, I guess. That’s why I never travel without it.”

 

Danse pours the crystal liquid all over his fingers, one hand slicking his erection, the other at MacCready’s entrance. He touches the ring, teases the skin, strokes his cock, breath shallow.

 

“That’s cold. Will you hurry it up? I don’t need much prep, but I want you inside me by, like, three weeks ago.”

 

Danse plunges a fingers into MacCready’s hole, and the mercenary grunts, writhes on the grimy bed, arms above his head on account of his bonds. Danse licks his lips. “Can’t wait to put it inside you,” he whispers. “You’re insufferable, MacCready, a true criminal, but I’ve wanted to have you since I laid eyes on you. Did you know that?”

 

His finger brushes against something, a mound, and MacCready gasps, pants, pleads. “Then _have_ _ me _ , Danse.”

 

Danse's finger slips out, and he pushes MacCready’s knees up to his chest, lines himself up with the entrance, and makes eye contact, holds it.

 

He slams in without warning.

 

“Fuck!” MacCready barks, hips canting upward.

 

Danse slams in again, a third time, a fourth.

 

“You really -  _ ngh _ \- take no prisoners, do you, Danse?”

 

Danse leans down, brings his lips and tongue to one of MacCready’s nipples, sucks hard. The throaty groan echoes through the empty house, and Danse increases his speed. The friction is enough to drive him wild, and MacCready is clearly used to this but still so, so tight. Danse scrapes his teeth over his neck next, placing little kisses to MacCready’s jaw. His movements are sharp, consistent.

 

"You're hitting it every - _ah_ \- every damn time," MacCready says. "So good, holy shit."

 

The nerves are building inside him, and Danse grunts, "You close, MacCready?"

 

“Hey now,” he chuckles. “My hands are all tied up. Do a guy a favor, would you?”

 

Danse breathes fast as he pumps into MacCready, wraps a free hand around the mercenary’s cock and tugs in time with his rhythm.

 

“Oh,  _ yes, yes, yes _ ,” MacCready hisses, rises to meet Danse for every stroke. “Fucking yes, don’t stop, Danse, don’t you  _ dare  _ fucking stop!”

 

It increases the tension, pulled tight like a string about to snap, and the enthusiasm MacCready shows is really what sends Danse over the edge. He reaches around MacCready’s waist, hauls him up and over, onto his knees, his still-bound wrists forced into the air where they’re anchored to the headboard.

 

MacCready’s palms stick flat against the wall, his ass in the air, and Danse takes him from behind, his hand on MacCready’s dick in the front.

 

MacCready mewls, gasps, back arching. “God, you feel so good!”

 

“And you said _I_ was loud,” Danse teases.

 

Their flesh makes wet sounds as it slaps together over and over again, and the pressure is building deep in Danse’s abdomen, the moans tumbling from MacCready’s lips the sexiest thing Danse has heard in a long time. The sounds increase from them both, getting louder and louder as Danse loses all control and abandons reason, jacking MacCready off as fast as he fucks him, every thrust in and out stronger than the last. MacCready's practically howling now, fingernails digging into the wall, bouncing back onto Danse's cock.

 

MacCready gasps when he comes, then hisses strings of words and phrases. It sounds like “ _ fuck yes, so good, Christ _ ”, but Danse isn’t sure, because he’s at his limit moments later, plunges in thrice more before he’s spilling into the condom. White lights burst behind his eyes, his skin tingles all over, and everything is tight, tight, tight.

 

They’re panting, twine unwound in a heap on the floor, lying next to each other as they stare up at the ceiling.

 

“Remember when I said this should be a one time deal? I may be flexible on that front.”

 

Danse couldn’t agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo... Y'all need to calm down


	7. Hancock

Danse doesn’t understand how Hancock can be so confident when he looks like  _ that _ .

 

“Hello, ladies,” Hancock greets with a purr, turning his whole body to watch as the drifters pass by. “I’m your mayor - don’t be shy to come up and ask me questions.”

 

Danse tries to contain his snort, can’t.

 

Hancock glances his way, the same flirtatious smile across his scarred mouth. “I don’t much enjoy being stuck with you, either, Danse, but do me a favor? Don’t cramp my style.”

 

“Perhaps you should consider the implications of you hitting on anything with legs and a face.”

 

“One could argue Daisy doesn’t have a face, yeah?” Hancock turns his head over his shoulder and calls, “Ain’t that right, Daisy?”

 

“Fuck you, Hancock,” Daisy’s scratchy voice sounds from her counter behind them.

 

“Atta girl,” he chuckles.

 

“I don’t see why Knight Nate would stick me with you, of all…  _ things _ .”

 

“Hey, now, Danse!” Hancock chides. “I’m still human on the inside! I enjoy a good tumble ‘twixt the sheets like any red-blooded man. You can’t be  _ that  _ much of a stick in the mud - even you’ve gotta get your rocks off sometimes.”

 

Danse can feel himself flushing, the clawing heat rising in his cheeks, his ears, and when he makes eye contact with the Commonwealth’s most famous ghoul, he knows he’s been caught.

 

Hancock’s feet stall, his black eyes widening. “Wait - no, really? No shit! Who’ve you been sleeping with, Danse? Lemme guess, is it Garvey? Caite?” He makes a face. “It ain’t MacCready, is it? He may worship and detest you at the same time, but I know for a fact that you hate mercenaries.”

 

“We’re done here,” Danse says curtly, and his power armor steams and clicks as it moves. “You can tell Knight Nate that I don’t give a damn if your Bobbi-No-Nose comes back here to kill you. She’ll be doing me a personal favor.”

 

“Don’t be like that,” Hancock says, his voice close behind Danse as he quickens his walk out of Goodneighbor’s gate. “Nate asked you to stick with me till we find Bobbi. You don’t wanna disappoint him, do you, brother?”

 

The stench of super mutants hangs heavy in the air, and Danse pauses. “I promised him not as a soldier, but as a friend. I should keep my word, even if I’d like to choke the life out of you.”

 

He glances back just in time to see Hancock’s grin spread across his face, sultry and dangerous. “You’re into choking, huh? Well, that makes two of us.”

 

Danse colors, sputters, makes to move away.

 

“Danse, wait,” Hancock murmurs, dropping low into a crouch. His black eyes are set on something just around the corner, and when Danse looks, the breath leaves him. “Suicider. How good of a scope you got on that laser rifle?”

 

“Not good enough to kill it before it blows us to smithereens,” Danse mutters back, mirroring the ghoul’s pose.

 

There’s beeping, and a faint red light darkened only by a monstrous shadow. Hancock reaches for his gun. “We can take him.”

 

“No.” Danse grabs his hand. “Normally I’d love nothing more than to watch you two eradicate each other, but I’m keeping you alive as a favor to my friend. You’ll be safer from your No-Nose in Sanctuary, anyway. Let’s sneak around and start the trek.”

 

“See?” Hancock bumps Danse’s shoulder. “I'm hard not to love.”

 

It’s by this principle of acting as Hancock’s bodyguard that Danse finds himself in very tight quarters with his charge three days later, an entire band of Gunners just one floor below them.

 

“I thought you said we’d be safe if we hid upstairs,” Hancock hisses. The back of his shoulder is pressed uncomfortably into Danse’s chest, power armor abandoned in a thicket of bushes outside the rotting middle school for speed.

 

“I didn’t think they’d stop,” Danse whispers back. “We didn’t see any camping material downstairs, so they’re likely to move on soon. Just stay quiet.”

 

They’ve hidden in a mop closet, the only door they were able to find with a lock that wasn’t rotten, but between the stacked boxes, medicine cabinets, and actual mops, there’s not much room for them both. They're both facing the door, stepping on each other's toes, bumping arms and legs. Hancock makes to holster his gun, nearly falls over because of the tight swivel. Danse catches him before he can knock something over, and they both hold their breath, listening for any sign they've been found.

 

The Gunners only laugh and talk below.

 

"Be careful," Danse murmurs. Hancock's bottom is pressed against Danse's hips, but he isn't confident their company hasn't noticed them, so he holds still. Something light and floral tickles his nose, and for a long while, he doesn't know what it is.

 

Danse has never made a habit of smelling strangers, especially not ghouls, but he'd have thought they smell like super mutants; rotten, moldy, stale, ripe. But Hancock smells amazing. He smells like the earth after rain, like carrot flowers and sugar. It's surprising.

 

Hancock grumbles, shifts to get more space, and Danse freezes. “Stop moving,” he mutters in Hancock’s ear.

 

“I ain’t comfortable,” Hancock shoots back, and wiggles again.

 

“ _ Stop. Moving _ .”

 

“I don’t take orders from - oh?” Hancock is looking over his shoulder, with his big, black eyes, and a shit-eating grin splits his face in two. “Why, Paladin Danse. I’m flattered, but won’t the Brotherhood be awful cross with you?”

 

Danse would rather die, death take him now, in this mop closet, than live through this moment. He doesn’t know how he can possibly live a normal life again, not after  _ this _ . Danse clears his throat. “Disgusting freak.”

 

“You have a hard-on because I accidentally touched my ass to your crotch, and I’m the freak?” Hancock’s cocky smile only widens, and Danse wonders if anything offends this man. “Now, synths, I kinda get, because they were never fully human to begin with, yeah? But ghouls? We were born human. I still got human emotion, human feelings, human needs…”

 

“Not an inch of you is human, Hancock.”

 

“You ain’t checked every inch of me, have you?”

 

Danse swallows.

 

The noise from the Gunners has faded, but neither of them mentions it, neither moves to check if the coast is clear. Hancock tilts his head. “You’ve gotta have wondered what fucking a ghoul is like, right? You Brotherhood weirdos have this no non-humans allowed policy, but some people exclusively date ghouls, you know.” He leans into Danse’s ear. “Somethin’ about the way the radiation twists the skin…”

 

This is the worst thing that has ever happened to Danse, worse than growing up an orphan on the streets of the Capital Wasteland, worse than executing Culter when he’d been turned into a super mutant. There’s something so alluring about Hancock, something so dangerous and irresistible, and Danse is angry with himself, wonders what it would be like to touch him, wonders if it would be as good and forbidden as he thinks it might.

 

“Whadda ya say, Danse? Wanna try it?”

 

Danse descends on Hancock like a bird of prey, finds Hancock’s mouth, kisses hungrily.

 

“Glad you made the first move,” Hancock grunts during gulps of air. “I thought I was gonna go mad with lust, waiting for you.”

 

And somehow, the thought that someone as confident and desirable as the Mayor of Goodneighbor wanting someone like Danse sends him over the edge, and he’s already turning his back on everything he knows, and a conversation with Nick Valentine from months ago floats through his mind.

 

_ Can I take this to mean you’ve had a change of heart? _

 

Danse nigh rips Hancock’s red frock in two, fights with the coat as best he can.

 

Hancock whistles. “You’re more eager than I thought! I can get behind this.”

 

And Hancock is kissing Danse’s neck, tongue flicking out, making circles and infinity loops in a lazy, slow drag. A groan bubbles from deep in Danse’s chest, but Hancock isn’t done yet. Danse can feel fingers on his back, searching for the zipper to his orange jumpsuit, tugging gently until it loosens around his shoulders. Hancock shoves the top down, past Danse’s chest and to his hips.

 

Hancock rubs his tongue over a nipple and a twinge forms in Danse’s groin, enthusiastic and responsive. Hancock licks again, closes his big eyes, and there's a flash of white and a sharp pain when he bites.

 

“Fuck,” Danse hisses, head hitting the wall behind him, lost in the sensation.

 

The mops and boxes creak in protest as they adjust. Hancock, frockless, tugs on the jumpsuit as he swirls his tongue around one nipple, then the other. “I bet,” he murmurs, “you’ve been wondering what this would be like for a long time. Since before we met, probably?” He nips again.

 

Danse groans.

 

The zipper reaches the end of the track, and Hancock pulls away to peel it from Danse’s body, exposing his underwear, thighs, calves. Danse’s hard-on is painful, obvious, and his mind is a haze of uncertainty and lust. Hancock’s breath is hot over his most intimate area, but only for a moment. They’re back at eye-level and kissing furiously, mouths mashing and hands twining, on backs, on waists, on arms, on cheeks.

 

Then Hancock slips a hand down the back of Danse’s underwear, and any hope he had of stopping is lost.

 

“Fuck, your muscles are tight,” Hancock groans, kneading the flesh with his rough palm. “Must be those Brotherhood-standard workouts, huh? Fuck, it feels incredible even on the outside…”

 

Danse bites Hancock’s ear. “Pants off,” he growls. “Now.”

 

Hancock has the biggest penis Danse has ever seen.

 

It’s massive, gnarled like the rest of him from root to tip, but beautiful in its own way, fully erect and ready. Danse isn’t at all disgusted by the sight of Hancock’s naked body, not like he thought he might be. There’s an allure to him, something that has all of Hancock’s confidence make sense, and Danse wants to touch it, consume it, absorb it.

 

“Like what you see?”

 

Hancock’s smirking.

 

“You get naked too, Danse. This ain’t a peep show.”

 

He steps out of his underwear and Hancock shoves his back to the wall, tongue diving into Danse's mouth, both hands on the back of his neck.

 

Danse works his palm between their bodies, takes Hancock and himself in his large hand, tugs up then down. The textures are so different, even, canyons and gnarled roots against glass and ceramic. The sensation of Hancock’s erection against his own is so gratifying that Danse wonders what he’s been missing all this time, or if it was just Hancock all along.

 

He varies his speed; slow, for when Hancock seems to enjoy it too much, and fast for when he’s just cooled off. Hancock travel from his lips to his jaw, then he works his mouth against Danse’s neck again, his quiet moans vibrating the thin skin. Danse slows his pace, grabs Hancock’s ass with one hand, his eyes burning.

 

“Now why is it,” Hancock mumbles, licking along Danse’s jaw, “I get the feeling you’re used to getting what you want? You’ve come this far, Paladin - why not get the full experience?”

 

Danse freezes, mind blank, skin numb. He looks Hancock in the eyes, mouth ajar. “You mean let you fuck me?”

 

“If you want,” Hancock whispers, hot breath in Danse's ear. “I could make it so good for you. It’ll be the best goddamn sex you’ve ever had, Danse, and that’s a guarantee.”

 

“I’ve-” He stops short.

 

Hancock pauses. “You’ve only done the fucking, am I right?”

 

Danse’s silence is more than enough confirmation for Hancock.

 

“A little prep work, some motivation, and incentive, and I think we’ll be right as rain. If you’re not confident, of course, we can do it how you’re used to.”

 

But Danse glances down at Hancock’s dick, so thick and long, textured from the radiation drug, and he wants it so badly he places his forearms on the closet wall and bends. “Just do it, and fucking hurry.”

 

A throaty chuckle, the  _ click _ of a cap opening, and Hancock says, “I never rush lovemaking. But I can be a bit on the rougher side, if you prefer it.”

 

Something cold and wet is between his cheeks, and Danse shudders, cock twitches. “Do you carry your own lube around with you often?”

 

“Always. You never know.”

 

A finger circles the rim, dips ever-so-slightly past the muscle, and Danse lets out a breath.

 

Hancock does it again, teases, flirts. It’s cold, but it feels good and strange at the same time, and the feeling only magnifies when the first finger slides all the way in.

 

“Christ, you really are tight back here. This’ll take a few minutes, Danse. Just relax, enjoy the ride.”

 

The finger, slick with lubricant, spins upon reinsertion, and Danse grunts, unsure what it’s supposed to feel like. Another entry, then another, and a steady rhythm builds as Hancock pumps in and out, weathered digits stirring all kinds of sensations. There’s a second finger resting lightly on the skin for a moment, and then it joins the first, the extra stretch uncomfortable and arousing all at once, but still just strange.

 

Danse bounces his hips back onto Hancock’s hand, and the ghoul chuckles. “Impatient? Me too, but I don’t think you’re ready quite yet. Now if you wanna-”

 

“Hancock, shut up and get a move on,” Danse hisses. “I’m so hard I can’t even think.”

 

“...You want me to use a condom?”

 

“No,” Danse gasps, because Hancock’s brushed against something inside him, and it sends sparks shooting through his blood. “No, I want you to fuck me raw.”

 

Hancock chuckles, “Much obliged,” and the tip of his cock lines up with Danse’s entrance once the fingers are gone, and it’s slipping inside, huge and ribbed and warm, and Danse moans as it happens. It’s less painful than strange, perhaps a little uncomfortable, but Danse hardly notices.

 

He’s so turned on, he feels he may come sooner than he wants.

 

His nipples are pebbled, the air in the closet musty, and strong hands grip Danse’s hips, holding him away for a second, then tugging him down fast. Hancock fills him completely, and he shows no mercy.

 

The ghoul pulls Danse back again, grunts as he does, and soon is pistoning in and out so quick that the traction becomes second nature. His wrists bounce with each thrust, and he touches his forehead to the wall, blessedly cool, solid,  and raises his back. His arms and legs quake, his whole body brimming with heat and haze.

 

“Shit,” Hancock breathes, and Danse feels the air hit him square in the back. “You really are fucking tight.”

 

“You’re so big,” Danse pants, guttural groan ripping from his throat as Hancock rewards him by speeding up.

 

“Yeah? Does it feel good, Danse?”

 

Hancock must hit Danse’s prostate on the next entry, because he finds himself spilling nonsense words, meaningless phrases and desperate bids to the ghoul's ego. “Yes,  _ fuck _ , it feels good, Hancock!”

 

“You like being plowed from behind, don’t you?” Teeth sink into Danse’s shoulder, and he yelps. “You fucking love having my cock inside you, and you never knew it could be like this.”

 

Everything he says is true - this is the craziest, filthiest, most erotic thing Danse has ever done, and he can’t stand the untouched pressure building in his stomach any longer, reaches for his dick. Hancock catches his hand, pins it to the wall and thrusts at just the right angles; Danse whines.

 

“Not today, you don’t. I’m gonna make you come just like this; I won’t so much as let you touch it.”

 

Danse turns to argue, but his foot catches the corner of a box, and they tumble backward, knocking the door off its hinged. There's an ear-splitting  _ bang _ when it hits the floor, Hancock and Danse on top of it, and it echoes through the entire building.

 

They freeze, listening, waiting.

 

“Gunners are gone. Should we be on our merry way?”

 

Danse kisses his collarbone instead, protests when Hancock squirms underneath him.

 

“Keep your shorts on, big guy, I’m trying to get us more comfortable,” Hancock chuckles. “It doesn’t seem like you wanna stop, and frankly sweetheart, neither do I.”

 

“Then keep going,” Danse demands, and swings his legs onto either side of Hancock’s hips. He sees the ghoul’s dick again, slick with the lubricant, still unbelievably large, and he licks his lips. “Can I ride you like this?”

 

“Anytime you want, really.”

 

Danse takes Hancock in his hand, maneuvers until he can feel the dripping, wet head against his entrance, and lowers himself onto it. “This position is better,” Danse hisses, rocking his hips forward. “It’s deeper.”

 

Hancock’s chest rises and falls, his weathered hands upon Danse’s hips again, encouraging his moves back and forth. “I admit when we met I thought that sex with you would be good,” he explains, short of breath. “But I didn’t know it would be this mind-blowing. You’re enthusiastic.”

 

And Danse lifts himself up, looks Hancock in the eyes, and slams down again. Hancock inhales, sharp.

 

“Christ, do that again.”

 

Danse bounces down, and with every impact, Hancock hits his prostate with ease. Danse’s head is light, tiny waves of pickling pleasure building and building in his core. His cock aches so, so much, begs to be touched, but Hancock holds his hands, and all Danse can do is smash down over and over. If anyone finds out he's done this, he'll be done for in the Brotherhood. Years of loyalty and dreams wasted, the mark of a traitor upon him, but Danse knows what will really condemn him.

 

He's fucking a ghoul, and he fucking loves it.

 

Danse is on the very edge, moments from falling, and Hancock thrusts up to meet him. The waves release, washing over every inch of his skin, electricity and fire and ice all at once. A primal, animalistic exclamation tumbles from his lips.  He comes in three spurts, once his stomach, twice on Hancock’s, but the orgasm doesn’t end, because Hancock is bounding into him still, every strike hitting home. The waves build and rise until Hancock gasping, too, comes with a “ _ fuck yes _ ”, and only then does the sensation fade, leaving Danse boneless.

 

He wonders if he’s crossed a line he can never uncross, but can’t help wonder if they can switch places next time.

 

“So,” Hancock purrs into the post-coitus quiet, “how do you like me now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck I love Hancock


	8. Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao this one

"Strong hate puny human."

 

"That makes two of us, filth."

 

Strong brings his thick fingers to the top of his massive, bald head, scratches blunt and cracked nails over his scalp. "But puny human is not as puny as other humans. You are a warrior. Strong respect warriors."

 

Danse lowers his head to his hands. Even just a few months ago he would have killed this Super Mutant freak without hesitation for so much as looking at him funny, but here he is, sitting with Strong in Sanctuary, and trying not to think about how Nate winked at him on his way over the Old North Bridge. Away, again, from him. It's been three days and he still can't erase the memory. "Can you just shut up?"

 

But Strong leans in, brings his colossal, ugly face close to Danse's, and his large nostrils flare.

 

Danse recoils. "Did you just  _smell_ me?"

 

"Human smells of ghoul filth."

 

Well, it's not his fault Hancock is a fantastic (if not somewhat indulgent) lay.

 

"Human also smells of mutfruit."

 

It's  _also_ not Danse's fault that MacCready happens to be a mercenary, or that he thinks of really clever (if not strange) things to do in bed.

 

Strong frowns, sniffs again. "Also, mirelurk?"

 

...and maybe, yeah, okay, Garvey is still a fabulous kisser (even after battling muck-and-salt scented, overgrown crabs at the Castle), but Danse isn't embarrassed by him, damn it. He's a law-abiding citizen that is neither a ghoul, a mercenary, a synth, or anything unnatural in the least. Danse refuses to be shamed by this big green mistake of nature, and throws his hand forward, pushing back on Strong's meaty chest with his palm. "Out of my face, mutant."

 

He'd rather die than admit it, but being around Strong reminds him of a person he'd rather forget, someone he had to kill with his own hands. And it's then the thought strikes him; if Danse was able to kill his own friend that had been mutated, why is he now unable to kill this stranger he has no prior fondness for? And it scares him, because he thinks he knows the answer.

 

It's the same reason Danse kisses MacCready instead of arresting him.

 

It's the same reason he feels a genuine friendship with Valentine.

 

The same reason it feels delicious as sin to let Hancock touch him.

 

Danse is changing. It's the only explanation for it, but Danse never anticipated this, never thought it possible, never thought he  _could_ change. Since the moment he joined the Brotherhood, their philosophy has become his life, their cause, his reason for existence. But while Nate travels the Commonwealth and hates those that bring the people harm, he has never had a problem with people or creatures that genuinely want to do good. It's why Nate brought Hancock here, whose motto of  _of the people, for the people_ Danse can't help but agree with. It's why Nate spends most of his time out with Valentine, despite the gears and wires and sparks. Caite, Curie, Cogsworth, fuck, even  _Strong_ won't hurt good people.

 

Danse thought he would change Nate.

 

As it turns out, Nate is the one that changed him.

 

"Human looks stupid," Strong gruffs. "Dumb look on human's face."

 

But no amount of change will ever get Danse to like this overgrown slug.

 

Strong's head turns to the bridge, his beady eyes scanning the distance. "Strong smell Nate. And other human."

 

Danse is on his feet in a heartbeat, power armor left in the shade of the house, and races down the cement. He can see Nate, the regalia of the Minutemen General around his shoulders, beard a little fuller than their last meeting several days ago. Nate holds his heavily modified laser musket aloft, and as Strong said, he isn't alone.

 

The stranger is dressed in a white shirt and worn jeans, black hair styled up and back, a pair of large sunglasses on his face. He's smirking as if he knows something, thin lips a pasty pink against the worn flesh of his face. Danse can't see his eyes.

 

"Knight Nate!" Danse cries, meeting them at the foot of the bridge. "You've returned."

 

Nate claps a hand on the stranger's back, grinning. "I want to introduce you to someone, Danse; our newest friend."

 

The stranger says, "Pleasure," and extends his hand.

 

Danse takes it, and Nate continues, "His name is Deacon."

 

And Danse cannot shake the feeling he's seen this man before, even though his face is wholly unfamiliar, even though everything about him is strange and new.

 

Apparently Deacon feels the same way, because his hand freezes mid-shake, and he stares at Danse, lips parted. Danse can see Deacon's eyes through the shades, can't make out the color. Then, as quiet as a whisper of wind across a meadow, Deacon says, " _M7_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I was going to have Strong and Danse get it on, did you? XD


	9. Dogmeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Danse + Dogmeat is not happening. Be assuaged, lmao.
> 
> I'm legit thinking about writing Danse + Strong tho ;)

"You're a synth," Deacon says again, softer this time.

 

Danse's hand slips from its grip on Deacon's arm, and all that's left is the coarse chill of the wind, sweeping soundless through Sanctuary. Danse shakes his head, words lost to him.

 

Everyone else is asleep - except for Codsworth, of course, and Valentine. But even if they're nearby, even if they're listening, they don't say a word, don't join the conversation nor make their thoughts known. When Danse finally finds his voice again, it's quiet.

 

"No. No, there has to be another explanation. I know you from somewhere, Deacon, you have to tell me the truth. You _have_ to."

 

Deacon's wearing his dark sunglasses even now, in the middle of a starless night, and Danse has never wished so strongly to look into someone's eyes. Deacon's lips twist, he opens his mouth, hesitates. "Look. When we first met, you'd just been smuggled out of the Institute and we were being chased. The had gen one and gen two synths on our tail, laser pistols set to kill. You fell into a ravine, and I knew that if I left you there you'd be caught and forced back in. You told me, before the dogs caught our scent, that they had you acting as a personal servant for one of the higher ups. You told me that when he wasn't happy, even if you did everything right, that he'd hit you. He  _beat_ you, okay? And I saw that you weren't lying, that you were terrified of that place, that you wanted a chance to live your life as a normal man. So I jumped in after you, and once we were clear, I erased your memories. Because that was what  _you_ wanted. You didn't want to know you were a synth. All you wanted was to start over."

 

Danse hisses, "Bullshit," but Deacon only shakes his head.

 

"It's the truth."

 

"I grew up in the Capital Wasteland. My parents died when I was young so I worked my ass off to gather up enough caps to open a junk stand, you understand me? The Brotherhood saved me from that life, gave me purpose, meaning. I am  _not a synth_."

 

Deacon is quiet for a moment. "Brotherhood, huh? How brotherly do you think they'll be when they find out one of their own is the enemy?"

 

Danse's fist connects to Deacon's jaw faster than he can blink, the sunglasses flying off his face and vanishing into the night. Deacon falls, hard, on his ass, a trickle of blood flowing from his lip. He doesn't look surprised, hurt, or even angry, and it's his sad confidence, his utter sympathy for Danse that makes the voice of doubt whisper in the back of his mind,  _what if it's true_ _?_

 

He turns on his heel and runs, like the coward he wishes he wasn't, like the man he thought he'd left behind amongst the scraps of Rivet City. He run and runs and runs, all the way past Red Rocket truck stop and Concord, through the dead trees and shallow irradiated ponds and muck and mud and fetor. He only stops when he doesn't know where he is, what he is,  _who_ he is. Let the ferals come and rip him apart; if he's what he hates, it'll save everyone some time.

 

There's a low whimper behind him. Danse turns.

 

Dogmeat stands tentatively, one paw raised off the ground, big eyes bright in the dark. He whines, high-pitched, soft. Danse lets out a breath he didn't know he held, extends his fingers and sinks to one knee. "Come here." Dogmeat barks, races the remaining distance to Danse. Danse combs his fingertips through the fine fur of Dogmeat's coat, managing a tense smile as a wet tongue licks a happy stripe up the side of his cheek. "Thank you," he murmurs, "for following me."

 

Deacon must be lying. For what end, Danse doesn't know. But he has to be lying, because if it's the truth, if he really is a synth, then Danse knows exactly whom Maxson will send to put him down.

 

Nate has already been through so much, has lost his wife, his world, his son.

 

He shouldn't have to lose a friend, too.


End file.
